


Strigoi

by BeesAreAwesome



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 18th Century, Bittersweet, Blood Drinking, Buried Alive, Dean Steals a Baby For Cas, Forced Cannibalism, Historical AU, It's all very sweet and non-sexual, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Naivety, Orphans, Plague Pits, The Great Plague of 1738, The boys are 12, They don't know any better, Undead, Underage Kissing, could probably have teen rating but there is so much blood, death of an infant, wallachia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-27 18:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21123461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesAreAwesome/pseuds/BeesAreAwesome
Summary: Wallachia: 1738Orphaned by the plague, Castiel is left alone in his tower. The townsfolk all say that it is no place for the living, and so it must be true. He must be one of the dead--strigoi--cursed to walk alone for all eternity. He cannot recall his past, and so spends his lonely evenings wandering the graveyard, speaking to the dead and wondering what it was like to once be alive. But the dead do not whisper back. He is truly alone.Until one night another boy stumbles across him.





	Strigoi

**Author's Note:**

> This may be a short fic, but I think it may be one of my favorites I've written!
> 
> A huge thanks to [CR Noble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erudite12/pseuds/CR%20Noble) and [BlindSwanDive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive) for being awesome betas.
> 
> And to mention Swan again, OMG THAT ART! It's so beautiful and I don't think I could possibly be more thrilled <3 <3 <3  
So definitely go look at her stuff. Both the art and writing she does is always wonderful!  
[BlindSwanDive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive)
> 
> If you would like a spoiler on the MCD, skip to the end and I'll leave a note.

**Wallachia, 1738**

He has no recollection of family. It is a normal thing to have, family. Or so he has heard. He stares out his window watching as the occasional brave soul ventures to his tower, staring up with wide eyes to the ancient, haunted structure. He can catch snippets of things they say to one another in hushed tones—for the hills and the stones create an echo that will always reach his ear. _ “This is no place for the living, we should turn back lest we be devoured and our families miss us.” “What would my wife do should I perish? You must go on alone, for I cannot.” _Family. And being missed. Castiel wonders what this is like. But this is no place for the living, and those are mortal things. 

Castiel is alone in his tower. He has always been alone. Did he have family once? Was he missed? It should not matter, for it is not something he knows or will ever know, but his thoughts turn to these questions daily. He cannot go out during the day. What else has his mind to do but wander to questions that hold no importance?

He has not had a visitor to his tower in months—not that any of them have yet been brave enough to venture within—and he can feel the sorrow of loneliness covering him like a wet blanket. It is heavy and uncomfortable. He would seek others out, but he cannot go out during the day. He has tried. It always hurts. He wishes for nothing more than to call out to those brave souls who come to stare at his tower. What would they see when they look upon his face? Would they see him at all? He is surely already dead, for this is no place for the living. 

Castiel has scars upon his hands—and likely upon his face, too, but he has no mirror to tell him so. He has tried. He has tried to venture out. But the sun is a stinging nettle. It burns his flesh to the bone, he blisters and patches, and it doubles him in pain. Should he like to meet his demise, he could walk out into the midday sun to feel it’s radiance upon his face. A beautiful thing, the sun. But it would destroy him as surely as a fire destroys wood. Is not the sun made of fire? He must be a wooden boy. Witches are made of wood, too.

He does not believe himself a witch, for witches may go out during the day. Even though they amass at midnight to worship the devil and hold great orgies and dark rites in the wee hours when all good folk ought to sleep, they may still walk among those born of the day, born of goodness. Castiel must go out at night, but he is not a witch. He knows nothing of the splendor of the sun nor the devil. Only the pain of the day and the loneliness of the night.

He should like to be a witch. It is a malady easily hidden, a malady of the infernal alone. He doesn’t feel like an infernal creature; he wants to be good. But he would take being a witch over being undead, if that is truly what he is. He would gladly commune with the devil, hand his soul over to the pits of hell should it mean he could walk in the light with the living.

Instead, he walks alone at night. He is partial to the places where the dead are kept, for in death, no judgement can be cast upon his weary bones. With the dead is where he belongs.

He recalls stories from—what he assumes was— his childhood, though he cannot recall ever being a child. Stories of the strigoi. They would rise from their own graves to walk the night, feeding off the flesh and blood of the townsfolk. 

He looks to the purple bruising on his arms. It is the corpse bruise. He finds them on his ribs and legs, too. And they should be upon his face, but he has no mirror to see. He wonders if he would cast a reflection should he find one. Do the dead show themselves to their own seeking eyes? Surely not, for what would they hope to see? Better to leave their reflections uncast. 

Castiel wishes he could recall it; he cannot. But he can imagine it; imagine himself clawing his way from his own grave, broken nails and corpse-bruised flesh seeking out the open air of the world he has refused to leave behind. But to what end? Wouldn’t it be better to stay dead? Why would he do this thing? Perhaps there is no choice when one is strigoi. 

And so, he finds himself again wandering in the dead of night, dead himself, amongst the dead. The gravestones are both old and new. He lies down upon a fresh grave and caresses the loose dirt and wonders. If he should dig his arm down into the earth, would a hand clasp his, another lost soul requesting to be liberated from death? He buries his fingers into the dirt and prays for the companionship. _ Rise, strigoi, and let me not be alone _. No hand reaches for his, and Castiel is still alone. The dead do not whisper or reach for hands. 

He can feel something stirring on the wind; a portent to a mass of fresh graves. Will it be he who condemns the living to eternal slumber within the earth? Perhaps, someday. But it is something far bigger than himself, strigoi or no, that he can feel buzzing in his bones. What did the English playwright say? By the pricking of my thumbs? Castiel’s thumbs do not prick; his whole body thrums. 

His abdomen clenches and he curls into a ball to ease the cramping pain. He should feed. This is something he has not done, for he wants to be good. He imagines slicing a throat with his bruised and scarred hand and placing his mouth upon the gaping wound, slurping down the sustenance that flows from the living into his own body. The thought makes him feel sick, but the cramping grows worse and he knows it is what he needs. Castiel weeps, for he does not wish to kill. He wants to be good. 

“Why do you cry, boy?”

A gentle and fragile creature sits beside his weeping form and Castiel can see the rays of what must surely be heaven rising from his form in great, glorious waves of light. He is reflected in the moonlight, a holy beast, and beautiful to behold. Castiel feels ugly and dirty.

“Am I a boy? Surely not, for I feel ancient. I am but a corpse, and this is truly where I belong. Tell me, stranger. Now that you have witnessed this form, will you bury me in the pits with the other dead?”

"You cannot be ancient. You look the same as me, and I am but twelve years aged."

"Oh no, I am dead. I must be hundreds of years on this earth, though I do not recall it."

“You still seem very much alive. The true dead must be hideous, yet you are lovely to look upon, even as covered in grave dirt as you are.”

“I am corpse-bruised. I burn in the sun. I have never fed, but I must surely be strigoi.”

The radiant boy exposes his neck to Castiel and drags a single, slender finger down his throat. “Would you feed from me?”

Castiel curls back in on himself with a sob. “I cannot. I want to be good.”

“Please. I want you to.”

Castiel peeks up at the curious creature from his bed of grave dirt. He is confused. He never suspected kindness from a stranger. “Why would you help me? I expected to be shunned.”

“I find you intriguing…” The shining boy looks down and bites his lip in embarrassment. “I admit, I have watched you for some time. You come to this place of the dead, and each night you rest upon a different grave. You look so hungry, I thought I might help.”

“Are you not afraid to die?”

The boy shakes his head. “I have heard you whisper to the dead, and I have heard them sigh in response. You are kind. So, please. Take from me.”

Castiel eyes the boy’s exposed throat as he sits up and leans forward. “How do I do it? I do not wish to slice your throat.” He gingerly reaches out to touch the pulse and gently slides his dirty, corpse-bruised fingers down the boys neck.

“Let me show you.” The boy reaches into his boot and draws a long knife. “I hunt and know where to cut.”

Castiel’s stomach lurches, his nerves suddenly cramping his guts, and he holds a hand to his belly, eyes squeezed shut tight. He cannot watch. Should the radiant boy hit the wrong place and cause himself to bleed out, Castiel would never forgive himself. Destroying such beauty so the dead can feed?

“Wait!” Castiel’s eyes snap open to see that the boy has the blade to his throat. He has already made a small knick in his flesh and a stream of blood slides down his neck. The wound is not mortal at all. The boy smiles and beckons Castiel to him, taking his corpse-bruised and grave-filthy hand to pull him close. 

Castiel gently places his mouth over the wound and suckles. He is not sure that he enjoys the flavor of blood—it is too salty and full of metal—but he knows it is what his body needs. Almost immediately the cramping in his gut lessens and he can feel his bruised skin finally trying to heal. He pulls back with a gasp and stares at the bright boy with wide eyes.

He says nothing, only stares in wonder at the stranger. The boy smiles brightly in return. He can feel the sun beat down on him, radiating outward from the boy; his flesh does not crackle and peel. Castiel has a stirring in his guts that has nothing to do with his usual pain, and has to think a moment on what the sensation is. Gratitude? Friendship? These are things he has never felt. He is suddenly worried that the boy will disappear forever when they part, and that is something he is not sure his delicate mind can take.

“Do you live nearby?” Castiel has hopes that he may learn the location and see the boy again. But he shakes his head sadly and looks to the dirt.

“No. I’ve come from Moldavia where the Black Death runs rampant. But the people here in Wallachia have become sick, as well. I’m afraid I can only wander.”

Castiel smiles bright. He imagines his blood stained teeth glinting in the moonlight, and he can see the boy eyeing his mouth in fascination. It must be so.

“Why do you smile, boy?”

“I am Castiel. And if you share your name, you can live with me. We’ll have a tower all to ourselves and can play games in the yard every night! There are rabbits and deer in the forest, and pennycress grows wild on the grounds. Please, say you’ll come!” 

The boy launches himself at Castiel, tackling him back against the grave dirt, his arms wrapped up in a tight embrace. “Castiel! I can tell we are going to be best friends.”

Castiel laughs. It is a curious sound! He’s not sure it has ever happened before, he cannot recall. He likes laughing. “Yes, I think so, too.”

The boy leans into the embrace and kisses Castiel’s cheek. He throws his head back as he laughs again in delight. Castiel isn’t sure why he feels good about it, but he kisses the boy’s cheek in return.

“I’m Deánn.” With his name, he agrees. 

And so Castiel is no longer alone in his tower, and no longer has to care that it is no place for the living. For there was now a living, radiant boy amongst the old stones; a boy who shares Castiel’s delight in the quick companionship.

\---

\---

Castiel and Deánn become inseparable. During the early hours of the morning, before the sun becomes bright and deadly, the boys play tag in the tower yard. At dusk, they check the rabbit snares and cook stew in the little stone hearth. Castiel is happy.

On the third day of Deánn’s arrival, they play a particularly exhilarating round of tag. The winner gets to ask any favor of the other boy, no matter how strange or raffish it may seem. Deánn tackles Castiel to the ground. It is far too easy. Castiel is strigoi, he should have the strength to win this game, but he does not.

He doubles up in pain as the other boy lies panting against his chest. “Did I hurt you?” Deánn asks, concern etched plainly across his radiant face. He searches the exposed parts of Castiel’s body; arms, neck and face. He finds a tender new corpse bruise forming on the inside of Castiel’s arm and knows that he did not cause this.

“I declare myself the winner. And the favor I request of you is to feed from me again.” Castiel’s eyes grow wide. He has not wanted to take so much from his new friend—his new family—and has subsisted on rabbit and pennycress, his usual fare. But Castiel is feeling weak, he knows he needs to feed again, and so he nods his head in agreement.

“Thank you, Deánn. You don’t have to do this.” The other boy just smiles and leans in to kiss Castiel’s cheek, just as he had three nights ago. Castiel laughs again, a sound that comes straight from the depths of his soul. He is still not used to the sound and it startles him. He likes to laugh. 

They continue to lie in the yard for some time, Deánn draped across Castiel’s chest and staring into each other’s eyes. It is a comfortable quiet and Castiel enjoys being so close to one of the divine. “Your eyes are so very green, Deánn. They are like the color of grass. What color are mine?”

“Blue. Like the sky in the midday sun.”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t know that color.”

Deánn kisses his cheek again. “Maybe if you feed enough, the sun shan't hurt so bad?”

“Maybe.” Speaking of the sun has brought the giant orb full above the hills, and the first true rays hit the boys. Castiel screams in pain and shields his face from it’s deadly brilliance. His hands begin to blister. Deánn picks Castiel up with a grunt and runs with all his might—like his life (or Castiel’s) depends on it—back to the safety of the tower.

When they are back within, Deánn carries Castiel up the crumbling stone stairs and gently places him on their pile of moth eaten blankets. Castiel’s abdomen clenches in pain and he immediately curls into a ball, hugging his bony knees to his chest, as Deánn begins to fuss like a mother hen. He rubs Castiel’s skin down with oil from the marigolds growing wild on the grounds. When he had a mother, she told him it would soothe cuts and burns. This is something he has brought to Castiel, a bit of knowledge from his own receding memories. Castiel has no memories, so Deánn has to share a few of his own.

The marigold provides immediate relief to Castiel’s aching skin, and he lets out a long sigh, though it does nothing to lessen his cramping belly. He needs to feed and Deánn sees this.

Deánn takes out his knife from his boot and makes a small gash across the side of his neck. It is shallow enough not to cause serious damage, but just deep enough to provide a steady trickle of life blood. He leans over Castiel and lifts the boys head up, placing his mouth against the wound. “Feed, Cas. It’ll be okay.”

Castiel suckles weakly at first, but after mere moments a surge of renewal washes through him. He leans up into Deánn’s neck and wraps his arms around the boy, drinking passionately at the source of vitae. He flips their positions, trapping Deánn beneath him as he feeds. He feels strong and vigorous and doesn’t want to stop, but after a minute, he forces himself back. He cherishes Deánn and wouldn’t want to be the cause of his demise.

When Castiel catches Deánn’s shining green eyes, the boy is looking up at him like he created the universe. Something is stirring within Castiel’s chest. Something he does not recognize; something even more alien to him than laughter. 

Deánn’s eyes shine brighter than the deadly sun. “Will you kiss me?” 

Castiel leans in and places a small kiss to Deánn’s cheek, the same innocent affection Deánn had shared in the tower yard and the graveyard. He leaves a mouth-shaped smear of blood behind, and has to wipe Deánn’s face clean. They both laugh. Then curiosity gets him. He leans in again and places a small, shy kiss to Deánn’s plump mouth. When he pulls back again he sees that he has left another smear of blood behind. He reaches his hand to Deánn’s face to clear away the smudge, but Deánn catches his hand and instead licks his lips clean. “That was mine to savor, Cas. Don’t take it back.”

\---

\---

They set up a routine of this for several weeks. Each day before dawn, they play as young boys do, without care of the world around them. They watch the sun rise over the hills from the safety of their tower, then sleep in their pile of moth eaten blankets, curled up in each others arms. Then when the sun sets, they set out to hunt rabbits and cook themselves dinner. Many nights they find themselves at the graveyard, lying back and staring up at the stars, inventing new constellations and telling stories about the old gods and how the world came to be. 

Every few days Castiel feeds upon Deánn, and after each feeding Deánn asks for a kiss. This is always Castiel’s favorite time of the day. It is not because of the sustaining life blood which is graciously given, though Castiel is constantly in awe of Deánn for being so selfless in this act. It is Castiel’s growing fondness for Deánn, the growth exponential at each passing day. He savors each quick press of Deánn’s lips upon his and thinks of ways he might try it on days when he does not feed. But he does not act upon it for he does not wish to cause upset. 

\---

\---

The days grow longer as high summer approaches and the nights are so very short. Castiel grows weaker the longer the days last, and after several weeks of nourishment by Deánn’s gracious hand, the boys soon realize that this is not sustainable. Castiel needs far more vitae than Deánn can safely provide.

The corpse bruise returns to Castiel’s body, more purple and black than it has ever been. It covers his arms and legs, even dots across his chest. Deánn’s blood does not relieve it the way it had. Castiel feels a perpetual hunger gnawing at his rib cage, the cramping growing in intensity. 

Deánn watches one night as Castiel writhes on the blankets. Castiel claws at his belly and is drenched in the sweat of sickness. He feels hot to the touch. And through his sick daze, Castiel can see a sadness furrowing his friend’s brows. 

Castiel has already fed the previous night, but it seems he must take of Deánn two nights in a row. Deánn slices a spot on his neck, careful to avoid hitting too deep, then crawls to the blankets next to Castiel. Castiel imagines he looks more strigoi that he ever has, eyes sunken and bruised purple, lips pulled taught to reveal his discolored canines.

Castiel lunges for Deánn as soon as the boy crawls near and feeds greedily. He loses all concept of time, and the tenderness and care he shows to Deánn are long forgotten. He does not suckle, he feeds like a beast. 

Seconds, minutes, or maybe hours pass. Castiel comes back to his senses to Deánn struggling weakly beneath him. He has never taken this much; he has taken too much. Deánn is pale, and his lips are grey. Castiel immediately grabs a bit of blanket and holds it to Deánn’s neck to staunch the bleeding. Castiel has torn his skin. This mark will scar brightly. 

“I’m so sorry, Deánn! I lost myself. Please, forgive me.” Castiel sobs and lowers his blood smeared face to rest upon Deánn’s chest. He can feel the other boy drape his arms around Castiel, holding him as tightly as his weak grip will allow. He murmurs something into his hair, something that sounds like “kiss”. Castiel lifts his face to see Deánn smiling. Deánn will always smile at him. 

“You still want a kiss?” Castiel’s mind is reeling. He could have killed his only friend, yet Deánn still gazes at him adoringly. 

“Oh, yes. It will make it all better. It’s what my mother told me, and I believe it is true.”

Castiel leans down and places his lips against Deánn’s. The other boy sighs and closes his eyes, wrapping his slender arms as tight around Castiel as he can with his current weakness. Castiel lets his lips linger far longer than usual, and he finds he does not care to pull away. If a kiss will make this all better and will heal Deánn of Castiel’s careless mistake, then he dares not pull away, his shyness be damned. He stays like that, unmoving until he feels Deánn fall asleep beneath him, then stays for yet another few minutes just to be sure.

It wasn’t truly a kiss, just a pressing of mouths together to share the same breath, but Castiel does not know this. When he finally moves his face back, he nestles into the blankets next to Deánn and watches over the boy while he sleeps, carefully watching to see the kiss work its magic.

Deánn sleeps the rest of the night and through most of the next day. Castiel eventually gets up before dawn to collect any rabbits that have found their way into his snares and prepares a stew for his friend. When Deánn finally stirs, Castiel is exhausted. Deánn’s color is returning to him, and he looks nearly as fit and healthy as he had before the accidental exsanguination. His eyes are as bright as ever as his lids flutter open and he looks up at Castiel. The kiss must have worked. Deánn’s mother was surely correct.

Castiel rushes back to his side and gives Deánn another quick kiss. “I’m so glad you are okay. I’ve made food and tended to your wound. I’ll do for you what you always do for me. I’ll make sure you are okay forever.” 

Deánn smiles and leans up to return Castiel’s quick kiss. “I love you, Cas.”

Castiel furrows his brow in confusion. He does not know this word. It has a familiar ring to it, like a word he should know if he could only recall his past. “What does that word mean?”

Deánn laughs. “It means you are my favorite and I am happy here. It means you are stuck with me forever.”

Oh! Castiel grins. “Well, I think that means I love you, too!” He thinks to himself on the meaning of forever. Surely Deánn does not know what that means, living with strigoi. “You must know, Deánn. I might live for a very long time. Forever could get quite tedious.”

“Not with you.” Dean pulls him down for another kiss. But this one is different. It almost tickles. Deánn has put his tongue in Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel is feeling quite curious at the sensation. They move together in this sinuous dance of mouths for several moments before Castiel pulls back and looks at Deánn in awe. It felt good.

“Your tongue is slippery, Deánn. Is my tongue slippery, too?”

Deánn nods, quite sagely. “Oh, yes. They are supposed to be. And you are very soft, too.”

“Can we do that again?”

“Whenever you like.”

\---

\---

The sun is still up when Deánn slips out of the tower and heads in the direction of town. With all the sleep he got, a hearty stew to replenish his body, and lots of healing kisses, he was nearly as fit as Castiel had ever seen him. He says there is something he needs to do and that he will be back before dawn.

Castiel sadly watches him go from his tower window, careful not to let rays from the setting sun fall upon his skin. He hopes Deánn will truly return, and that his talk about forever wasn’t just a ruse to placate Castiel. He believes in his heart that Deánn will return, though having always been alone, there is a niggling doubt in the back of his mind.

He stares out the window throughout the night and doesn’t even step out to touch the graves on the other side of his tower hill. He is nervous and worried, and his belly is starting to cramp. Deánn had given enough of his life blood to keep it from being bad, but Castiel would still need to feed again soon. A day or two at most.

He considers hunting down a deer and trying to drink the blood of the animal instead of always feeding on Deánn. But in order to do so, he would need Deánn’s help. He is the hunter, not Castiel. Castiel knows how to snare rabbits, but nothing so large as a doe, or even a fawn. And so Castiel continues to stare out the window, hoping against all hopes to watch Deánn return so they could prepare the hunt for the following night. 

It is shortly before dawn, before the pink of the morning sun fully takes over the sky and everything is still nearly black, that Deánn tops the tower hill, walking towards Castiel in all his radiant glory. He has someone with him. 

Castiel cannot see clearly yet, but it seems to be a girl, not much older than Deánn. She looks sickly, but walks on her own feet regardless. When the pair enter the tower and ascend the stairs, Castiel can feel the nervous clenching of his abdomen, making his blood cramps far worse. He is doubled over when Deánn and the girl top the stairs. 

Deánn lets the girl fall to the floor, no longer holding her upright, and rushes to Castiel’s side. “Cas! I’ve brought someone who can help you. “ He kisses Castiel’s cheek, then ushers the sick boy over to the equally sick girl. 

Castiel can see that her fingers have gone black and her belly is bloated. She has traces of blood about her mouth, but Castiel knows it is not from feeding. She is not strigoi like himself. She has vomited blood recently, likely on the walk from the village to the tower. She has the Black Death. It will be a matter of days, perhaps hours, that she dies on her own. Because of this, he does not feel sorrow for taking of her.

When Deánn slices her throat and leads Castiel's face to the wound, he lunges down and gulps greedily at the flow escaping her body. Deánn was not careful like he is with himself; she is expendable. 

Castiel drinks of the girl for as long as her blood flows out. He can feel her heart growing weak; each gush of blood entering his mouth is smaller than the last. When Castiel is feeling so full he might be sick, the blood flow has completely stopped. The girl is dead. He pushes off her body and falls to his back, panting as he studies the ceiling. Should it bother him that he has consumed plague blood? It doesn’t seem that it should matter; they of the strigoi are immune to such diseases. She didn’t taste like Deánn. He doesn’t think anyone would taste as wonderfully nourishing as Deánn. Tainted plague blood or no. 

Deánn has been crouched next to Castiel, watching in fascination while he fed from the girl. He is still looking into her vacant eyes when Cas lifts his head to look in Deánn’s direction.

“I watched as the light left her eyes, Cas. It was remarkable.” Deánn turns to face Castiel and gasps in awe. Castiel has blood running down his chin in sloppy rivulets; it covers his neck and has sullied his shirt. “I think you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.”

Deánn crawls on top of Castiel and they share another kiss. One of the ticklish, slippery kisses that Castiel is particularly fond of. When Deánn pulls back, his lips and chin are now, too, covered in plague blood. He does not shy away from this, but licks his lips clean with wide, clear eyes, his pink tongue reaching down to his chin to gather what he can. 

He looks back to Castiel’s eyes. “I think this truly binds us together. Now I know it’s eternal.” But Deánn is not strigoi. It cannot be eternal, not yet. Castiel thinks there is a way to turn Deánn, but he isn’t sure if he is strong enough. He will have to try. 

—-

Every couple days Deánn leaves the tower to lure another sick villager back to Castiel. With so many people dying, they do not seem to notice or care that some of the villagers leave and do not return. Perhaps they have gone off to die alone, or perhaps they have made their way through the woods to a healthier region. Whatever the cause, it is one less body to bury in the pits. Deánn and Castiel now have three corpses of their own to deal with.

“Should we bury them? We can dig our own plague pit. We could even set them on fire and let their ashes scatter to the winds.” Deánn raises his face to the sky and closes his eyes, the picture of happy contentment.

“I think that is a smart plan. But I do not have a shovel. We should collect one from the graveyard tonight.”

And so, as the sun sets, the boys head out to get their burial tools. While at the graveyard, they take advantage of the night being young and lie back on an old grave and stare at the sky, hand in hand, watching as little stars fall from the sky.

“I love you, Cas.”

Castiel smiles. “Tell me what that means, again.”

“It means... someday if we got married, we’d have babies.”

Castiel turns to look at Deánn’s profile and feels his heart flutter in his chest. He still glows like holy fire under the moon. Castiel should blister and peel from the light touch of their hands. “We could have babies?”

Dean shrugs and turns to look Castiel in the eyes. “Maybe. I think one of us has to be the girl. I don’t know if I can do that.”

Castiel thinks real hard on this. He is pretty certain Deánn is correct. One of them will need to be the girl. “Well, I could try to be the girl. How does it happen?”

“I think we have to kiss a lot.” Deánn smirks and pulls Castiel close to him, and they share a ticklish, slippery kiss that continues off and on for most of the night. An hour or so before dawn, they gather burial tools from the surrounding graves and walk back to the tower.

“We have kissed a lot. Should we expect babies now?”

Deánn laughs at this. “No, because we aren’t married yet! You don’t get babies until you’re married. I think.” He scratches his head in thought. 

“Oh. How do we get married?”

Deánn frowns and looks at the ground. “I don’t know. I think I have to give you a ring. But I don’t have one.” He looks back up with a fresh smile. “But I can make one! It’ll be the nicest ring ever made, Cas. Just you see!”

Castiel now wears a frown of his own. “I don’t think it will work. I’m strigoi. The baby would be dead and covered with the corpse bruise, like me.”

Deánn bites his lip and makes a pensive noise. “Then we will just have to take a baby like the gypsies do.” 

This is a plan that could work. The gypsies are almost always blamed when children go missing, even more than witches. No one would look for strigoi in the haunted tower if a baby should be missed. Everyone knows that even if they are excellent at mending pots and entertaining with their haunting music, never to leave gypsies alone with the children. It is said that they cannot breed on their own and so they have to steal away babies from the villages they pass. Castiel thinks it’s probably witches more than gypsies that do the stealing, but it is still something to think on.

\---

\---

The next night, Deánn comes back to the tower with an old man and a very small bundle. The man cannot make it up the tower stairs, and so Castiel comes down to greet them on the hill.

He is surprised at how no one Deánn has brought to him has put up a struggle. It’s as if they are mesmerized. More likely, they are ready to die a quick death, but Castiel thinks Deánn must surely have some holy magic about him. 

Castiel eyes the squirming bundle in Deánn’s arms, but before he can ask, Deánn sets it down and slices the old man’s throat, guiding Castiel to suckle the wound. He does, graciously, and leaves a sloppy trail of blood down his chin and neck as he collects the flowing vitae into his mouth. This man tastes the worst so far, but it nourishes him greatly, so he does not complain at the flavor. When he looks up to Deánn after finishing his feed, he can see the other boy staring with something quite profound glinting in his eyes, though Castiel does not quite recognize it. Maybe that’s what love looks like? Does Castiel glow like that when he looks to Deánn?

“I love you, Deánn.”

The boy grins in delight. It was Deánn’s turn to ask. “What does that mean, again?”

“It means I will never want anyone but you. Forever and always.”

Deánn picks up the bundled blanket and comes to sit next to Castiel. They share a blood kiss. This one does not last long, for Deánn has something to give Castiel. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a ring, tightly woven together with dandelion and cattail stems. It is intricate in the braid and is the most lovely thing Castiel has seen. Deánn slips the ring over Castiel’s finger then declares, “We are married, now.” He lifts the squirming bundle and sets it gently on Castiel’s lap. “And this is our baby.”

Castiel unwraps the small gift and stares into the face of a small, pink child. It must be quite new, for it barely weighs a thing. It lets out a pitifully weak, mewling gurgle and Castiel can only think that it might be hungry. He hugs it to his chest. “Let’s get some cold broth for the babe.”

They both stand and walk up the tower stairs to where a pot still hangs in Castiel’s little stone hearth. He ladles out a bit of the juices leftover from Deánn’s dinner and tries to coax the wriggling thing to drink. It shakes its head back and forth, not wanting any of the savory broth. “Perhaps it does not like things made of rabbit.” 

“I have an idea.” Deánn stands up and goes out to the yard. Some minutes later he is settling back next to Castiel and the babe with a bloody chunk of meat in his hand. “I think babies need to eat raw meat.” He slips a small hunk of the meat into the child’s mouth. It makes a face, but looks to be suckling the blood from the flesh. He wouldn’t expect a human child to want human meat, but he didn’t really know that much about these things. Castiel makes sure the babe is upright so it does not choke when it swallows.

“Be sure the pieces are small enough to swallow whole. It does not yet have teeth.”

Deánn nods in agreement. “That is a wise idea, Cas.”

Deánn continues to slip minuscule pieces of the raw, bloody meet into the baby’s mouth until the child seems sated and falls asleep on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Now we are married and have had a baby. What else should we do?” Castiel looks to Deánn for an answer, but the boy is gazing at him with that profound look again. Castiel can feel his heart melting.

“Now we love each other and grow the baby.” 

Castiel thinks that sounds good.

\---

\---

It is four days when the baby stops suckling the bloody meat. It has become very red and hot to the touch. When Castiel turns colors and grows feverish, fresh blood is what soothes him. Is the child one of the living Strigoi? Could they have happened across one of his own kind by mistake? Castiel tests this by sharing the next feed with his babe. The baby only vomits the blood back up. He isn’t certain what to do. 

It is then that he notices a tender spot under his arm. Had he mistakenly knocked it upon something while feeding? He has not had any more of the corpse bruise return since Deánn began bringing him villagers every two nights, so he is not sure what it might be. He removes his sodden shirt and looks. He has two blue-black nodules poking out from under his armpit. Curious. 

Deánn stares hard at him, his face turning quite pale. “You said you couldn’t die!” His voice cracks with the strain of his shout. Castiel thinks the loud noise should disturb the baby, but it remains still. It has stopped the blood vomits and now looks to be asleep. 

Castiel blinks up at him. “Oh, I don’t think I can die. But it is curious that my skin does this. Perhaps it is from drinking the plague blood. I may be taking on the characteristics of my food.” He shrugs and tries not to think too hard on it. He has always believed himself strigoi. Why should a couple of nodules on his arm change his mind? But Deánn becomes frantic.

“Nonono, this is not right. I don’t think that is how it works. You feed to stay healthy!” Deánn lunges down to Castiel and kisses him. “If you become sick, then who will fix me?”

Castiel pulls back from Deánn and looks at him quizzically. “What do you mean? You are already perfect.”

Deánne shakes his head. “No Cas, I have them, too.” He removes his shirt and there under his arm is a cluster of black nodules, the same as Castiel’s. He reaches out to touch, his heart filled with dismay. This is the infallible sign of his demise. But Castiel is surely strong enough to turn Deánn now that he has been taken so well care of. It is still a harrowing sight to see Deánn ridden with the Black Death. If he does not act, Deánn will die a forever death in a matter of days. And that is not the forever Castiel wants. 

“It is okay Deánn.” Castiel brushes his bloody fingertips against Deánn’s cheek and gives him a soft kiss. “This thing on my arm is just my body’s way of telling me to feed from the healthy. You have made me so strong. I think I have the strength to turn you. You can become like me and never die.”

Deánn blinks back his tears and asks, “How do we do it?”

Castiel smiles. “We feed from each other. We’ll do it tomorrow when I have room to consume you.” 

Deánn nods his head. “Okay. Yes. I want you to turn me. You’ll really never die? And we’ll really always be together?”

“Oh yes. I am most certain of it.” But Castiel isn’t certain. The plague signs on his body make him think twice about the assumptions he has made about himself. He cannot recall ever having someone teach or guide him. He has always been alone. No one has ever said “You are strigoi” or, "You are a sick boy.” He cannot be certain. But he will still try. He and Deánn are married with his ring of grass, and they have a baby to grow. It really couldn’t be snatched away so quickly. Could it?

\---

\---

When Castiel wakes the following dusk, the baby is dead. He would feel more saddened if Deánn weren’t so ill. He puts the baby in sack cloth and tucks it away into the corner. He idly wonders if he can continue to grow the baby anyway, if he places it in a fresh pool of blood.

Deánn is not rising with a smile as he usually does. He has gotten the red fever, and a horrid black rash has spread across his body. Two of his fingers have gone dusky and will surely be black in a matter of hours. The Black Death has him firmly in its clutches now. He will be lucky to survive the night. 

Castiel steps outside onto his hill to sob into his hands. He is still having doubts on whether he is strong enough to turn Deánn, whether he is even strigoi at all. If he is truly mortal, then they have been wildly reckless. Secluded as they are, they should have been able to live out their days free of the plague. Castiel could have tried to subsist on the blood of the forest deer, or maybe the rabbit stew would have eventually been enough. But now, the only way to tell is to turn Deánn and hope he awakens as a new creature. 

He collects himself as best as he can and heads back up the stairs to where Deánn is still bundled up in their moth eaten blankets. “What they say is true, Deánn. This is no place for the living. It is time.”

Castiel leans over Deánn and cuts into his neck, careful not to cut too deep into his heart’s blood. He only needs to feed enough to make him strong, so he will not risk ending Deánn by poor slicing of his flesh. He leans in and drinks. It is not like how he remembers Deánn tasting. Then, it was like a burst of fresh springtime air after the heavy snows. Now, it is tainted with plague blood. It tastes… wrong. Even so, Deánn’s vitae makes him stronger.

He pulls back and cuts into his own neck. Deánn is weak and Castiel has to hold him up in order for him to suckle. Castiel was less careful with his own throat and bleeds quite freely into Deánn’s mouth—it matters not if he dies, for this may not work and he very well may not have Deánn soon. The other boy is sputtering and coughing around the thick liquid but tries to swallow as much as he can. Castiel finally has to pull away from Deánn, feeling slightly light headed. He needs enough strength to bury Deánn should his body die. He might still come back as strigoi. Castiel is fairly sure that is what became of himself, why he was alone all his life, why no one wanted him. They thought he was a dead boy and buried him, and so he walked the earth alone. Until Deánn. 

He holds Deánn close against his chest and whispers softly into his hair. “I cherish your presence. It is like being allowed to walk in the sun. I bathe in your radiance when I should crack, and burn, and turn to ashes. But instead, you give this undead husk the glow of life.”

Deánn wheezes, and Castiel has to listen carefully to what he is trying to say. “Forever? When I die, you’ll wake me up?”

Castiel lets a tear slide down his cheek. “Yes, forever. Forever and always. The sun will die before we do.” 

“Love you.”

Castiel kisses the top of Deánn’s head, holding his limp body tight. “What does that mean, again?”

But Deánn does not respond. 

Castiel listens to his labored breathing for several hours until Deánn draws no more breath. Castiel lets out an unearthly wail, willing this dark magic they have attempted to work. He cannot think of continuing without Deánn. 

Dawn is yet hours away, so Castiel gathers his remaining strength and collects Deánn’s body to bring him to burial. He throws the sack cloth that holds their baby over his shoulder, then goes forth towards the village plague pits. He hasn’t the strength to dig a grave himself, so he will have to let the villagers bury Deánn with the rest of their dead. He thinks on the short walk that they had never named their baby. Perhaps that carelessness is what brought this plight upon them. Leave the child unnamed and it will leave you with a curse. Has he not been cursed enough already?

It does not take long for Castiel to arrive at the pits. There are hundreds of bodies waiting for burial, for the village was no longer truly a village, but a fairly large town—though he still always thinks of it as so: small, quaint and full of smiling faces. Was he from that village? Would they recognize him, should he be seen? He doesn't care if he ever recalls. 

He does not have the will to dump Deánn and their baby into the pit, having to claw his way out of the grave all alone, so he finds the fullest one, the one most likely to be covered with earth, and crawls down inside. They will be buried together. He gently places Deánn upon the corpse pile, then finds a place for him and the baby beside him. He wraps his arms around Deánn and nuzzles his face into his neck. “When you wake up we will celebrate,” he whispers to his corpse love. 

Deánn lets out a death rattle. Castiel knows it for what it is, but takes it as an omen that Deánn will come back to him. He dries his cheeks and holds the boy close. He can see the first tinges of pink caressing the rapidly lightning sky. But Castiel does not fear the sun, for he can hear villagers approaching. He closes his eyes and whispers one last time to Deánn. “Forever.”

There are two more bodies dumped into the pit Castiel inhabits, but they do not disturb him or Deánn; they do not cover them with limbs to tangle in. When they both wake to the night and climb their way out, the way will be clear. As fresh grave dirt begins to cover his body and he is slowly buried alive, he has one last lingering thought. If he dies a true death this day, he will still have Deánn forever in the afterlife. Here or there, it matters not. He cannot wait to share a kiss with him, whatever shape their new forms take. 

**Author's Note:**

> Dean dies of the plague and Castiel is buried alive in the plague pits as he holds tight to Dean's corpse.


End file.
